Page 4 of The Last One
No idea, eight times.
Am I a hunter who bumped her head and lost her way? Is someone searching for me at this very moment, near tears, looking for me to round a corner or to appear on the horizon, fighting their growing fear that I’ve either fallen off a cliff or been eaten by a bear?
Again: no idea.
I do know this: after I retrieve my pendant, my clothes, and my broken-in boots, I will break that thief’s other hand. Then I’ll… I’ll figure out the rest later once I’m fully clothed.
The nausea finally ebbs, and I lift my still-aching head and sniff.
Something reeks—and it’s not me.
Thief!
I push myself off the ground and then push out a breath.Go!I race through the forest, my legs aching but stronger now.
That floating death trail still glows, but it’s lightened from amber to cornsilk. And the pulsing…faint. The ghost trees thin, and the dirt trail becomes well-trod gravel. The scent of burning wood and the blossoming stench of decay tell me that I’m running in the right direction, that I’m almost there, that a thief will be at the end of this amber track, but I need to hurry.
Through the trees, I see buildings and smoke rising from chimneys. She must’ve run back to her town. Maybe I’ll be able to slip through this village, find the thief, grab my amulet, and sneak back into the woods without being noticed.
Sounds like a good plan.
I burst from the grove and into the light.
The smell wallops me first—that sweet rot—and I push back a gag. I skid to a stop.
A noisy settlement sprawls out before me. Clusters of stone and straw-bricked houses with shingled roofs and chimney stacks lost in smoke sit along two separate gravelly footpaths. I count about twenty smaller wood cottages built behind a church, the common house, and a few shops. In the village’s town square, a tall signpost has been jammed into the sandy earth. Atop the post sits a large wooden circle that has three paddles nailed across its top and three more nailed to the circle’s bottom, with the middle paddle bigger and thicker than all the others. Raggedy carts filled with wares surround this signpost.
Looks like today is market day. Are most of the villagers browsing at the carts?
I creep closer, ducking along the dusty path, as inconspicuous as possible. The ground beneath my feet is more dried yellow tufts than emerald-green lawn, more burrs and foxtails than blades of grass. No water has kissed this piece of land in ages. I near what has to be a tavern—it stinks of ale, old wine, and sweat—and peek around its corner for a better view of the marketplace.
Twelve carts crammed into the town square. One cart holding bolts of fabrics, each a slightly different shade of beige. Other raggedy carts showcase bushels of sad-looking wheat, sickly vegetables, and animal hides, clucking chickens, bleating stunted sheep, and blocks of knotty lumber and charcoal. Everything lies baking beneath the daystar, the already-fading tapestries dulling and the shiny trinkets melting.
The village square buzzes with haggling voices and a lively minstrel’s tune. Merchants bustle about, their hands moving quickly to arrange their meager goods into pyramids or towers. Villagers are purchasing items from these raggedy carts. They’re shepherding those scrawny sheep down the road and counting wrinkled potatoes and withered turnips.
Where is the kaleidoscope of colors? The deep reds and yellows of spices? The vibrant greens and yellows of shimmering silk?
And the people here.
Swollen and thin and brittle-boned people. People with tangled hair, yellowed teeth, or no teeth, no longer handsome, no longer pretty, no longer upright. Gnarled and twisted people. Sandy-brown or dirty-blond hair that’s cut short or pulled into a single ponytail, no parts on the left, no bangs in the front.
There are no reds or blues or yellows here, in ribbons, curtains, or flowers. No stars or birds or gems. The only jewelry: circular pendants with protrusions in the shape of boat paddles radiating from the edges, every pendant the same as the next. No one dares to stand out here.
But everyone glows amber.
With villagers this sick, and it looks like every villager is sick, should I be standing this close to them? Should I be breathing their air? Should I risk possibly catching their disease just to reclaim my clothes and pendant? Or should I let the bandit win for now, wait until death claims her—from the looks of this village, deathwillclaim her—and then pluck my amulet from her lifeless, broken hand?
The pulsing in my gut intensifies, but that cold emptiness I’ve been fighting against has now reached my hip bones and the tips of my fingers. Should I stand here, succumbing tothatinstead of whatever sickness is making this village glow?
None of these choices bring me joy.
The decision is made for me when I spot her.Thief!She’s talking to the merchant selling dull-colored fabrics and holding up one of my gloves! The merchant rubs my precious glove between his grimy fingers.
No, no, no. She’s not selling my stuff.
I take a deep breath and hold it as though holding my breath will keep me safe. I take ten cautious steps, and then I lose that breath, exhaling loud enough for some villagers to hear.
And now, those villagers turn around and gape as they look up at me. Their faces show strain and stress, every eye following as I slip past.
